Stand in the Rain
by arbitraryink
Summary: When tragedy strikes and two lives fall apart, only three things can help to heal both - time, proximity, and a beautiful little girl. Dasey futurefic.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note:_ This is my first LwD story, so I'm a little antsy - but the Dasey community seems friendly enough this far ;) Hopefully, if all goes according to plan and I don't chicken out, it will wind up being more than simply this. Also, please don't be deterred by the cliched plot. The rest of the story will not continue in this vein, I promise.

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own LwD or the song "Stand in the Rain" by Superchick.

**Stand in the Rain**

Casey McDonald had never been drunk.

At weddings, at bridal showers, at Christmas and Easter and on New Year's Eve, she would politely sip at a half glass of white wine – the sophisticated kind – or lift a flute of champagne in a toast. Once, she accepted a taste of authentic German beer, bottled directly from a European tap, just for the experience, and another time even went so far as to try the spiked punch at the post-grad dance. On her eighteenth birthday, she strode confidently into 29 Park on King and Talbot, ordered a "rum and coke – on the rocks? What does that even _mean?_ – and the bill, please," and left just as briskly as she'd entered. Beyond those few occasions, Casey McDonald had never been intoxicated, and even then had _always_ been in her right mind.

In high school, Emily Davis had smiled apologetically on her behalf and said, "She has a sensitive stomach," choosing instead to find her friend the least carbonated drink in the vicinity while handing over her car keys.

"Miss Responsibility, resident DD," as Emily had often referred to her, was, at all times, reliable, dependable, and most definitely responsible. Alcohol was not, as many of her schoolmates believed, a substance to be abused. Respected from a distance, but never abused.

It was exactly for this reason that the last place Nora McDonald-Venturi had expected to find her eldest daughter was huddled in a corner of GTs on a Thursday night, braving the worst of the karaoke singers, and clutching a bottle of Smirnoff Ice like a lifeline. She had to give the girl points for so much as leaving the house, and politely overlooked the fact that Casey's hair was tangled and sticking up, her mascara was running down her left cheek, and the nail polish of both hands was chipped beyond all repair. The ice-pick heels and black cocktail dress didn't look as out of place as Nora would have initially assumed, and the evening patrons of GTs were most certainly not paying attention to the frail little brunette with the glassy eyes and the warm vodka cooler.

"Hi, honey."

Even when Nora slid into the chair across the little table, Casey didn't blink or look away from the drunk – and obviously underage – girl mangling Aretha Franklin. Cautiously, Nora reached out and pulled the bottle from between Casey's fingers, noting as she did that Casey had taken maybe two sips, if that. "Casey, how long have you been sitting here? We've been looking for you."

The only response was a hint of a shrug, and after several beats of silence, Casey blinked, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and letting out a shuddering breath.

"I know, sweetie. There's nothing worse than losing someone you love. You've got a whole support net behind you, though. Why don't we get you home now? You can stay with us for a few days, until you get your feet back under you." Nora smiled sympathetically, squeezing Casey's hand. "Have a nice warm bath tonight and snuggle up in your old bed. How does that sound?"

There was a long pause and a spark of worry started deep in Nora's chest – was Casey contemplating suicide; was something terminally wrong with her; after what had already happened, what other bad news could there be? – but when Casey spoke, they were the last words Nora had expected to hear. "I'm pregnant."

--

She stayed for more than a few days.

The first week was the hardest. In the mornings, Nora and Marti tiptoed around the house so as not to disturb Casey, who they knew was not sleeping anyway. When George came home for dinner and tried to dispel awkward silences with corny jokes, only silence greeted his voice. Casey would excuse herself to bed by eight o'clock, and even the shower couldn't disguise the sound of her tears. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Marti would come down the stairs and wake Nora, and Nora would hurry back up to hold Casey as she sobbed.

"Oh, _God,_ mom, it h-hurts so much. I miss him so much. I w-want him back! I'm having a b-baby, mom, and he's n- he's not even _here."_

All Nora could do was press her lips to Casey's hair and whisper, "Oh, honey. Oh, honey baby. I'm so sorry."

Lizzie and Edwin both came home from university in time for the funeral, and neither offered words of condolence but simply sat with her in silence, offering comfort without words. Something had changed, they both realised, about volatile girl they'd grown up with. She no longer demanded attention in her misery, choosing instead to sit noiselessly in the front pew of the little funeral chapel. She wasn't whiny at this stage. She just _was._

The opening prayer was delivered by Lizzie, and Sam's oldest sister was the first to take the podium.

"Anyone who knew my baby brother _knew_ him. He was open, and he was an honest kind of guy, the kind of guy you could tell a secret to and trust it to be kept. He never lacked friends – he had them all over the place, especially in high school, and especially the members of his beloved hockey team. I can see most of you guys out there, and I think it's really great that you've come. Hi, Alistair, great to see you. Mike, wow, you came all this way. He's been living in Germany, for anyone who doesn't recognise Michael Connor.

"Anyway, guys, Sam would be totally happy to see you here. He'd be blown away that you still remember him so well. This is what I mean when I say he had a lot of friends. Not just passing acquaintances, you know, but real friends who cared about him, and who still care enough to come say goodbye."

Her voice broke here, and Marti, sitting beside the podium on the bench of the piano, offered a tissue.

"Thanks, Marti. Marti Venturi, everyone. Sammy just loved her, especially when she was little. When he started coaching at the Kinsmen Arena – sure, you know the place, right on Granville avenue – when he started coaching those kids, I swear he totally changed. It was like watching a new guy be born out of the old one. Guess he kind of wanted Marti to discover an interest in playing hockey, but that girly piano won over. Just kidding, Marti. His team's great, though. A bunch of little guys running around on ice with sticks. Sam loved those two things with all his heart – hockey, and kids. He _loved_ kids. He'd always wanted to have one, or two, or ten, but I guess it just wasn't meant to be. It just wasn't in the books for him."

Nora, holding Casey's hand, felt more than a fractional tightening of grip and squeezed back just as hard.

"But even as much as Sam loved hockey and kids, there is one thing he loves more, and I use the present tense because I know that no matter how much time passes, it'll never change. It's great that you're all here, everyone, to pay your last respects with the rest of us. But even though knowing Sam has probably brightened your lives, you're missing out on something big if you haven't met his wife. Casey McDonald was probably the best thing to ever happen to my kid brother. She inspired him to reach for his dreams. Without her, I doubt he'd have ever bothered with college, and would probably be working some dead-end job if she hadn't encouraged him to follow his dream of coaching a kid hockey league. So what if the money wasn't great? He was doing what he wanted to do, she'd say, and that was all that counted. She also used to say that she was the one with the massive ambition ego, and who was supposed to heat her house while she was off trying to save the world economy?

"Damn, Casey, he loves you more than anything in the world. When he was alive he loved you with his all his heart and mind and soul, and I swear that even though he's d-d- even though he's d- shit. Even though he's not here anymore, that's one thing that'll never change."

Ten minutes later, when Sam's sister stepped away from the microphone, a member of the funeral procession stood and asked to say a few words. There were other friends of Sam who spoke – old schoolmates, old hockey teammates, even one of his ex-girlfriends – but Casey had stopped paying attention. They kept talking about what a great guy he had been and how he'd made an imprint on their lives. She could hear laughter all around her and some weeping, but all Casey could do was stare into space with a glazed look on her face.

It was the drifting notes of a Mozart concerto that had her looking up, trying hard to focus her eyes on the pianist. Marti sat ramrod straight with her eyes closed, letting her fingers play across the keys with a precision that Casey envied. Sam had loved classical music, Casey thought to herself, and seconds later her body was heaving with a grief that had not yet spent itself.

--

The cemetery was silent three and a half months later when Casey kneeled before a flat grave marker. Her pants were getting soaked and muddy but that didn't matter, because this was Sam's twenty-eighth birthday and the false flowers beside his marker had taken the majority of the weather's beating. As she meticulously plucked each battered satin stem from the implanted cement vase, she hummed softly under her breath, and every so often rested a hand against the swell of her belly. Already nearly through her second trimester, this was only the second time she'd ever come to him.

"I have something important to tell you, Sammy," she said, and rubbed at a bit of dirt with the pad of her thumb. "We're going to have a little girl in exactly eighty-four days. I've been counting. Want to know something neat? She's going to share a birthday with Turk Broda. I thought you'd like that. Go Leafs! I know. And that was the day when the US created the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps. See? Didn't I tell you that women could be soldiers? Well, anyway, that's when she's gonna say hi for the first time, or at least it's what the doctor says. Kind of wish you could be here. She's going to have your nose, and your eyes. I know it. A mother knows these kind of things."

There was a good ten minutes of silence as Casey sat, fingering the marker, fingering the flowers. "I'm going to name her Samantha," she finally whispered. "Samantha Elizabeth. She'll always know her daddy. I promise."

Before she left the cemetery, Casey touched her fingers to her lips and pressed them to his name. "Marti got a postcard from Derek a couple months back. He was in Uganda. It was the first time we've heard from him since… well, you know. Do you miss him? Sometimes I do. But only a little. Only a really little."

--

When Derek Venturi turned on his television at five fifty-five, Central time, he pressed the mute button instantly. There were few things he hated more than Toronto television, and during the day he rarely ever bothered to turn the stupid thing on anyway. During his five years in war-torn Africa, television was a luxury few had enjoyed, and he'd lost his taste for it since. There were a thousand sounds anyway, memories of sounds that were on a continual loop through his mind day after day after day. There were a thousand horrifying pictures to make a movie that cycled relentlessly before him whether his eyes were closed or not. Television was unnecessary.

The only time that the remote came to his hand was at this exact moment, every week day, and since it was always the same program always at the same time, Derek didn't have to bother with channel changing anyway. A beer in one hand and the other gripping the arm of his chair like a lifeline, Derek stared at the screen as a quick message flashed across:

"Collision on Highway 4 results in three casualties and two in critical condition, and police release long-awaited name of child abductor. Also, a new outdoor skating rink? CFPL and Casey McDonald will bring you up to date on these exclusive stories! CFPL, London's News Leader."

As her face appeared on the television screen, bigger than life and in full colour, Derek could finally relax. As she mouthed silently at the screen, all other images were pushed to the sides of his vision.

He could breathe again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note:_ Thanks so much for the reviews :) Each one made me smile. Still my first LwD story, but everyone in the community has been very friendly!

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own LwD or the song "Stand in the Rain" by Superchick.

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**Stand in the Rain**

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When Derek woke, he thought he was suffocating. His chest was tight, his throat constricted, and he was twisted in the rockstar sheets Nora had yet to remove from his bed. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of death and from experience he knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. He had long stopped hoping for the dreams to end, instead acknowledging them with an indifference he'd never mastered in youth.

A glance to the clock beside his bed confirmed what he already knew – it was five thirty in the morning and he'd slept a record four and a half hours. Since coming home, Derek had to admit, his sleeping patterns were changing and not in a way that he could find fault with. He could swear that there were birds outside the window and he could hear them calling to one another; not the loud, obnoxious squawks of neighbourhood magpies but instead the cheerful chirps of robins and their young. Even as he strained to hear, his brain told his heart that the robins had already left London for the winter. Dark outside or not, his stepmother would already be awake – "I'm not retired yet, and there's still so much to do!" – but Derek didn't want to disturb the early morning silence of an always-moving house.

Such early mornings were different now. No neurotic stepsisters shouting at him; no younger brothers trying to bum twenty dollars. His baby sister was still sleeping, and the quiet was soothing. It was a different kind of quiet than that he'd grown accustomed to in Africa. This silence was not filled with the sounds of the dead. It only ever lasted until six, sometimes six thirty, because that was when Marti would wake up and come trotting downstairs to make sure the rabbit pen in the backyard was clean and that Barney had water. It was her new tradition, after feeding the rabbit, to jabber away as if her favourite sibling had really been gone for eight years and missed the biggest events to ever happen during her brief stint in elementary and middle school. And so the silence was precious, even though it wouldn't last long.

It was edging toward six o'clock when Derek finally appeared in the pocket doors of the kitchen, hair still wet from a shower he still felt exceedingly grateful for despite being back in Canada for nearly a month. Nora turned as she heard him, a mug of coffee held with both hands while the steam rose up to waft into the air. "Well, sleepyhead, you slept late," she said, and to her satisfaction Derek cracked a smile. "Will you help me with breakfast?"

Breakfast was another thing Derek would never again go without. There was a deliberate difference between his London family's three-meals-a-day meal routine and the maybe-we'll-eat-maybe-we-won't routine of a Ugandan citizen. He'd discovered these differences the hard way, but somewhere underneath the indifference and the bitterness Derek knew it was making him a better man. As he stood at the island counter next to the only woman who mattered in his life, Derek glanced at her face and noted a distant tilt to her jaw and a far-off look in her eyes. Casually, he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, this and that. What colour theme we should choose for the new kitchen, whether it will snow again this month. How nice it is to share this time of day with you. That Edwin and Lizzie will be back here for Christmas. Won't it be nice to have the family together?"

Of course it wouldn't be the whole family without Casey and the baby he still hadn't seen – as much as Nora hated to admit it, she was still a mother who missed her children – but Derek figured that the question was probably rhetorical and didn't answer, waiting to let Nora work her way back to what was bothering her.

"But then I think about you, Derek, and all the trouble you've been through in the past few years. I'm afraid to think that they might question you until you break. None of them have grown out of that stage yet."

"I can hold my own in a discussion. Don't worry about me." Derek set down the knife he'd been using to slice fruit and wrapped his arms around Nora from the back, hugging her. With a sigh, Nora leaned back, resting her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

"I can't help it. You're growing up, but I'll always worry."

They were silent for the next ten minutes – Nora mixing pancake batter and Derek slicing the rest of the fruit from the dish on the counter. Finally, when the silence was starting to feel tense, Nora said delicately, "Derek, honey. I think it would be better for you to stay somewhere quieter, to, you know, help you adjust."

Derek paused, leaned back and said, "I'm not staying with Casey."

"Oh, but Derek, think of what good it would do you." Anticipating protest, she hurried on. "You'd have your own space, more than just a bed, and you wouldn't have Marti attached to your hip. And… Derek, it would be doing me a huge favour. Casey hasn't been _herself_ lately. You know what that's like. She hasn't called since you got home, and she never answers when we call her. I'm worried about _her _more than anything else."

Though this was obvious to Derek, again he held his tongue and waited. Sure enough, Nora seized the opportunity and continued, "Both of you are still recovering. Don't you think it would be easier for you to relate to someone? Well, maybe not so much, with you coming from Africa and everything, and Casey… well, you know. But I think it would help if you'd just – "

She was interrupted by the sound of a sixteen-year-old racing down the stairs, making as much noise as she had when she'd been younger. "Something smells goo-_ood!"_ Marti sang, whipping through the laundry room and out the door almost faster than Derek's head could turn to follow. "Barney!" he could hear faintly, "it's time to wake up and say 'hello Marti!' Hello Barney, you cutie. Oooh, what's this yummy stuff?"

With a wry smile Nora lifted a pancake from the electric grill to a blue china plate. "It never changes around here. I hope you understand that I'm not trying to tell you to leave. You're always welcome here. This will always be your home. I just think it would be best for you, and maybe even best for Casey. Who knows?"

:

:

Derek wasn't surprised to see a wall of trees when he turned onto Barry Place, and silently thanked Nora for her surprising accuracy in directions. London wasn't nearly as big as he remembered, yet somehow he still found difficulty in navigating the city he'd grown up in. But that was okay, Derek told himself. There was no one else in the car to mock him, and he trusted that his duffle bag would remain silent.

_The second house from the very end on the right, _Nora had said, and as he pulled into the driveway Derek cast a critical eye over the property. There was a single white birch tree planted squat in the middle of the front yard, trunk only beginning to thicken against the wooden pole it was tied to. The lawn was neat, though in need of a final cut before the snow started to fall, and a yellow plastic Fisher Price tricycle was turned on its side against the front step. Flowerbeds lined the small, cracked walkway, and even though all evidence of growth had long since passed away Derek could imagine the variety of colours that Casey would have growing throughout the summers.

The house itself was small and square, with a large picture window that undoubtedly looked out from the living room, and a small rectangular one that was certainly a bedroom window on the other side of the screen door. Blue siding and cemented white stones matched the pattern of the blue-and-white drapes hanging in both windows. It was a small, modest home, and Derek could easily envision Sam's desire for the simple and Casey's huge dreams for what that little house could be one day.

He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, shoving his hands into his pockets as a defense against the brittle chill of the late autumn air. There was an old green Pontiac Sunfire parked at the top of the driveway, only several feet away from the door to a small white shed, and from where he stood Derek could see a tattered sticker with the phrase "Baby On Board" and the top of a back seat strap-in car seat. She had her bases covered as best she could, Derek thought. For a single working mom, she was making a quiet life for her tiny family. The car in the driveway, if nothing else, meant that she had to be home.

But when he stood on the doorstep, counting slowly to ten before reaching forward to ring the doorbell _again,_ Derek started to wonder if maybe she'd gone out for the afternoon, on a date or maybe to the park with the baby. "Come _on, _Case. Open the door," he muttered, rocking back on his heels. "I'm starting to feel it out here."

Almost as if his prayers were being answered he finally heard footsteps from inside the house and when the heavy oak door swung inward, Derek felt his heart clench in his chest. Every muscle in his body relaxed. Even through the screen door Derek could see his stepsister wipe her face of any thoughts and narrow her eyes, studying him with more shrewdness than she ever had in the past. He opened his mouth to say something – anything –

The door shut in his face.

:

:

For a long moment Derek stared at it. Had she honestly just done that? Without thinking twice he opened the screen door and twisted the knob of the oak, letting out a breath when it turned out to be unlocked. Slowly, he pushed his way into the house, closing the oak door behind him and looking around the entranceway with the same criticism he'd used on the outer house.

There was a blue mat beneath his feet, and from the small pile of shoes just to the side of the door he figured he was supposed to take his off. Obligingly he slipped out of his runners and stepped onto the old carpet of a short hallway. Directly to his left was a coat closet, but the idea of hanging up his jacket in a house whose owner wasn't exactly rejoicing at his presence seemed a bit rude. A few steps forward, the left wall branched into another hallway, and the right opened into what he had correctly assumed was the living room. The wallpaper was fuzzy and peeling in the corners, and Derek half expected to see a green shag carpet beneath mirrored walls. A play mat, two laundry hampers filled with toys, an old armchair with a smaller, fluffier version beside it, a standing lamp and an old television with its antennae taped to the top were the only décor.

Not seeing his step-sister in that room, Derek bypassed it and kept going, pausing only in the entrance of a tiny, compact kitchen. There wasn't much for counter space, what with a two-element stove and a narrow refrigerator taking up all extra room, but he barely noticed as he moved to the small round table beneath a little picture window. Casey was sitting in one chair, parallel to the wall, holding her knees folded up under her chin as she stared out the window.

"You can hear them laughing," she whispered, and he sharpened his gaze on the profile of her face. "In the park, just there. I can hear them. Can't you? They don't remember that today's a day for mourning."

"They're just kids," Derek replied.

"I know." This time, she turned her head to look directly at him. Her eyes were shiny and her cheeks were red. "How am I supposed to hate them?"

Derek sat across from her and they sat quietly for several minutes. For the first time, their silence was companionable until Derek broke it. "Nora's worried about you. You haven't called."

"Oh. I was sure I had. I'd thought – well, never mind. I'll call her. I will. We were just there at Thanksgiving."

"Are you coming at Christmas?"

"I don't know yet. It depends on Sam, I guess."

When Derek stiffened, Casey looked up at him and frowned slightly, a crease forming between her brows. "Not _that_ Sam. Today's the anniversary of his _death,_ Derek. Do you really think I'd forget who I was talking about? I _mean, _my daughter. Samantha. She's… what time is it? Already four? Marie will be bringing her by soon."

"Where is she?"

"At a friend's. She goes this day every year. Gives me a bit of a break, a little time to think. I don't typically entertain guests, but you were so insistent at the door. Oh!"

With a start, she rose and hurried to flick the hind stove element on. "I'm an awful hostess. Do you want something to eat? Drink?" She was flustered, and Derek knew it couldn't have just been him. Instead of demanding cake and coffee, he rose as well.

"What's the matter, Casey?"

He'd always been able to read her, even when she didn't want to be understood. That angered her more than anything. "I'm fine," she snapped, passing the back of her hand over her eyes before setting an old silver kettle on the burning element and dropping a teabag inside.

For another long minute, Derek didn't say anything, then finally turned away just as Casey broke the silence. "Eight years. Eight _years,_ Derek, and we never heard a word from you. Not one! You sent all of one postcard to Marti, and that was it. Did you forget about us? Was that it?" He opened his mouth, just to have Casey talk over him, her voice rising to a shrill level that bordered on hysterical. "We thought you were dead! _Dead,_ Derek! Doesn't that mean something to you? Sam waited every day for a phone call or _something_, you didn't even come home for his funeral –"

"I didn't know."

Casey stopped, turned, stared at him. He looked away.

Without speaking, she flicked off the burner and poured herself a cup of tea, taking it to the table and sitting once more. Derek sat across from her, and stared out the window at the small, bare backyard. All he could see was yellow grass and an old fence with the paint peeling off its boards. The rear gate stood slightly ajar, with a rubber bungee cord holding the latch to its socket. He wondered if cats ever snuck into their yard through the gaping space between the crooked gate's bottom and the ground. He wondered if they had a cat, had ever had a cat. He wondered whether Casey liked cats, or if her daughter did.

The sound of a car door slamming had Casey rising and Derek following, staring curiously toward the front of the house. Both made it to the front door before Casey stopped and turned, looking at a point over his left shoulder rather than into his eyes. "I made up the pull-out couch downstairs. There's no television, but there's a toilet and sink. Go. Get your stuff." At his steady look, she elaborated. "Mom called. You can stay for a few days."

:

:

Derek's first impression of Samantha Elizabeth was of a pixie. She had the curling ash-blonde hair, the big solemn blue eyes, and ears that came to a slight point at the top. Pixie or elf, he thought, if not a mixture of both. All that was missing were opaque wings and a tinkling laugh. But even when running into her mother's open arms, accepting the hug and returning it with fervor, little Sam didn't laugh.

He slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and wandered over to the two, nodding to the driver of the car – Marie, he assumed – as she pulled into the neighbour's driveway to turn around, heading again for the mouth of Barry Place. It was like a trap, Derek thought, and for several long seconds he imagined the same place in eastern Rwanda; how he would have mapped out every escape route in his head just in case a situation went sour.

From where he stood, Derek could see a little paved walkway leading through a miniature forest into the West Lions Park, and remembered that everything was safe here. There was nothing to run from, nothing to hide from. There were no secrets that couldn't be told. Here, there was family.

He held out a hand to help Casey to her feet.

"Sam," Casey said as she straightened, "I want you to meet someone. Derek is part of our family. He's going to live with us for a little while."

The little girl hid half behind her mother, staring seriously at Derek without even a smile, and whispered, "Is that man my daddy?"

:

:

He stayed for more than a few days


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note:_ Thanks for all the support I've been given by the LWD fanfic community. It's appreciated!

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own LwD or the song "Stand in the Rain" by Superchick.

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**Stand in the Rain**

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By the tenth of December it still hadn't snowed, and Casey was already tired of the winter routine – bundle up, bundle down. It was time consuming and time seemed to be the one thing she was running short on lately. Derek had been with them for almost five weeks and was officially no longer just a guest. The financial situation had ceased to be such an intimate concern, as he acknowledged the dissolution of the 'houseguest' title by paying his own bi-weekly rent, as long as his stay was indefinite. And indefinite it was – thus far, at least. The basement bedroom was starting to feel like Derek: another book on the shelf; a few shirts hanging in the closet. The afghan covering the cushions of the downstairs couch was indented where he sat. In the kitchen cupboards, a box of Sugar Crisp and an eight-pack of blueberry Pop Tarts; in the refrigerator, a four-litre jug rather than a two-litre carton of milk.

Every little sign of himself that Derek left around the house, Casey saw as a personal victory. She knew enough of his situation – from Nora, from Marti, from his agent in Toronto – to know that she was intended to be an important stage in his recovery. She chose to ignore Nora's delicate probing ('how are _you,_ Casey?') and continued trying to behave as if this was her life's natural course. Unlikely as it was for Derek to leave anything in the open, there was the rare occasion when he didn't bother moving something back to his room. One morning as Casey sat down to breakfast, she noticed the tattered cover of a well-read novel, half hidden beneath the morning's newspaper. Carefully, she tugged it out enough that she could read the title on the creased spine, and was surprised to see the largely illegible 'Moby Dick' glaring back at her.

Well. Casting all surprise aside, Casey ignored the abnormality of the situation and pretended that it wasn't at all unusual for Derek to show such an interest in the very same classic literature he'd dismissed all throughout his school life. Novels were one thing – just another building block that he was continuing to climb one step at a time – but novels progressed into a jacket laid over the back of the loveseat, and from the jacket to a shirt left on the ironing board, to a half-eaten bag of chips that he'd neglected to close and clip the night before.

Things were changing, she thought, very slowly. It wasn't as if he were really starting to revert from the strange man who cleaned up behind himself back to the Derek she'd known since she was fifteen. There were just little things that were his trademark attitude shining through what Casey considered his "protective shell." It was like Derek had put up a fiberglass wall between himself and everything else – his feelings, the world. There was something there that though she could see through to him she was unable to touch. She wasn't entirely sure that she felt comfortable around the man Derek had become – it wasn't part of her plan; it wasn't what she had chosen; it wasn't under her control. But after years of nagging at him to grow up and take some responsibility, Casey could finally agree that he'd done as she'd asked. It may not have been a change of his own volition, but though she'd never been there Casey could imagine what sort of atrocities he may have witnessed during his years in Africa. If anything could sober a man up, she guessed that would be it. So, the courteous relationship between Derek and Casey continued, uncomfortable as it may have been. Some days, she wondered if it was all a dream, but knew in her heart that this was the result of tragedy. She could vouch for that.

Until December the twelfth, there was a stiff formality in the house, and the relationship consisted mostly of avoidance. They were only together at mealtimes, with Derek making a point to remain in the basement whenever Casey was home, and Casey never venturing downstairs because of a nagging sensation that told her she was intruding. And after five long weeks, still the little girl never said anything to Derek. What Casey couldn't help but think was that this _wasn't_ a functional home, no matter how hard she tried to make it so. The halls weren't filled with squeals and laughter of a child and the kitchen didn't brighten with smiles of a wife and husband. Sam had gone to a child psychologist for six whole months starting that previous January, but there was no real answer for her lack of childish enthusiasm. Depression from missing her father was ruled out, given the man had died before her birth. There had never been anyone else so significant in either Casey's or Sam's lives, and so there were no attachment problems that anyone could see. The psychologist had said, "give her time. That's all you can do," and so Casey tried her best to give her daughter the time that would hopefully bring her out of whatever deadened the laughter. None of this was invisible to Derek, but he knew that it wasn't his business. He refrained from commenting, and Casey refrained from revealing, and this was the silent agreement. At least, it had been, until Marie called Casey pleading a fever, and threw Casey entirely off-course.

To that point, the system had been unchanging. On the third day, Casey had asked if he could watch Sam for an hour or two in the afternoon – just until she got home from working the lunch-hour special – and again in the evening until her the eight-o'clock news was finished. She had expected maybe a shrug, a casual "whatever" or even a flat-out "no." What she hadn't been expecting was for Derek to stare at her and bluntly say, "I don't feel comfortable alone with your daughter. She doesn't know me and I don't know her." It was surprising for him to be so honest but it almost relieved her, even knowing that she'd be short another thirty dollars from her paycheck – to go straight into the pocket of Marie Waters, who loved Sam as much as she loved her own daughter.

"All right," she had responded, and that was that. Every afternoon like clockwork, Casey would drive Sam to Marie's house on her way to the station at eleven, and pick her up at one on the way home. In the evenings Sam would go either to Marie's or to Nora's right after supper, and Casey would bring her home again at nine. It was a consistent schedule, and Casey's life wasn't anything if not consistently scheduled. This way there were no surprises that wouldn't be anticipated; no moments in which there were no answers. Her striving for perfection or, as Derek liked to call it, her Type A personality, wouldn't let a slip in the schedule go unnoticed.

But somehow, the schedule failed, and at a quarter to eleven Casey was calling everyone she knew. After hanging up with Nora, who was her last resort and who had a noon meeting she couldn't get out of, Casey had to face it – there was no one to take Sam, and she didn't trust a new babysitter when there was no time to personally test one and verify that they met all of her standards.

Casey had nearly worked herself into a full-blown panic, rapidly pacing the kitchen and puffing breaths as if she were in labour all over again, when Derek made his appearance. Hair tousled from drying uncombed, wearing a pair of sweat pants and an old Maple Leafs t-shirt, Derek came around the corner and into the kitchen without even looking up. Making a beeline for the refrigerator – an Old Derek habit that had reared its ugly head upon his return to a first-world country – he opened the door and was bent over with his head inside for a full minute before feeling the intensity of Casey's stare on the back of his neck. Cautiously, he straightened, peering at her from over the fridge door. For a moment he was reminded of an old annoyance in the way she stood with one hip cocked, the opposite foot tapping, and both hands on her hips.

"Well, spit it out," he muttered, shifting feet. Even after all this time, that look made him feel guilty.

For a long moment, Casey looked as if she were in pain, until finally she burst out, "I don't have a babysitter and I have a meeting after the lunch news and Mom has a meeting at twelve and Marie has a fever and I'm going to be late and I need someone to watch Sam!"

She finished, breathing hard, feeling her own pulse racing in her throat. Derek watched this with a raised brow. "You're asking me? Don't you remember Marti?"

"What?" she asked defensively. "Sometimes people change."

There was a brief pause, and then he shrugged. "Okay."

Casey blinked. "Okay."

And that was that.

:

:

She kept her cell phone on. If there was an emergency of any sort – if Sam fell and hurt herself; if there was a loose dog and it attacked Sam; if Derek was in a car accident; if he couldn't find the Kraft Dinner… well, she was prepared to be prepared. Anticipation was what Casey did best. Sam knew the number, and she had left a sticky note on the refrigerator with phone numbers for her cell, the station, Nora's office, George's office, Marie, a contact at the police station and the house number itself – in case he forgot and needed it on a hospital form. For all her talk of people changing, she justified her paranoia by recalling Derek's disastrous babysitting attempts in their high school years, and telling herself that it was impossible for one to be _too_ prepared.

All throughout the lunch-hour broadcast, she was distracted with visions of Sam bleeding from the head, and fumbled twice with the words scrolling up the blue screen at Camera Left. On a brief commercial break, the camera man asked if she wanted a glass of water and a Tylenol to clear her head. She politely declined. During the meeting, she lost focus more than once when images of Sam falling off the back porch and breaking bones kept intruding, and had to ask for several items to be repeated by the station manager. He frowned at her with concern, but waited until after the meeting to pull her aside.

"Casey," he asked, "are you all right? Do you need to take a bit of time off?"

"New babysitter," she managed, and the station manager nodded. He knew all about Casey's neuroticism. She had personally trained his daughter until Casey felt that the girl was prepared enough to keep an eye on little Samantha at a company barbeque. She paid well, but had psyched his daughter out enough that she took the payment that one time and avoided all of Casey's calls for the next two months. He honestly did feel bad about that, but did make up for it by bumping Casey's pay with a small but unasked for raise.

When the meeting was finally adjourned and the crew invited Casey to Tim Hortons for coffee with them, she declined as politely as she could and hightailed it out of the station. All she could think about was how badly Sam had hurt herself – did Derek watch her well enough? What did they do all day? She'd been gone for _hours – _well, for three, but who knew what sort of trouble a small child could get into under the watch of a lazy, unobservant man. She'd witnessed his babysitting technique – they had lived together for four years, after all – and the best-case scenario she could imagine involved her pretty baby in ragged clothing, soot streaking her face as she cleaned the fireplace. In typical Casey fashion, she worked herself up over this image, tearing apart her glove compartment for a paper bag before remembering that they didn't have a fireplace. With a groan, she put a bit more pressure on the gas pedal, going from a careful forty-eight to fifty-one kilometres an hour.

Without being ticketed for driving over the fifty-kilometre speed limit, for which she was incredibly grateful – speeding tickets were just so _expensive_ these days – Casey made it safely into her driveway and flew into the house without bothering to lock her car doors.

"Sam? Sam!" she called, kicking off her shoes in her hurry down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. "Derek?" A grunt came from the living room, and Casey backtracked, poking her head into the room. Derek sat in the old armchair – _her _armchair – staring fixedly at the muted television with the fuzzy picture.

"Where did you get this piece of crap anyway?" he asked, not looking up, but tilting his head to one side as if the skewed angle would make the picture any clearer.

Casey felt a flush rise up her neck and over her face. "Garage sale," she answered, then quickly changed the topic. "Where is she?"

"Samantha?" Finally, Derek looked over his shoulder at her. "She's colouring."

A smile bloomed on Casey's face and she left without another word, heading into the kitchen and swooping down on her quiet daughter at the little round table. "Hi, baby," she said, pressing a kiss to the top of Sam's head, then peered around her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Mom-_my!_ You can't look yet, mom! I'm makin' you a picture! Go _away!"_

"Oh, okay, I'm sorry." Casey grinned, and backed into the hall with her hands up, palms forward. "I'll just go sit in the living room with Uncle Derek. Come find me when you're done." She received no response.

"You know, she's just like you." Derek leaned against the wall just outside the living room. Casey motioned for him to go back in, and followed close behind. She sat in the armchair and he took a seat on the floor, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles.

"Did she talk to you today?"

"Nah."

"Did you do anything fun together?"

"Not really."

Casey frowned. "Derek, what did you do while I was gone?"

"She put on her coat and gloves and went out back. I sat on the steps while she played in the sandbox." The sandbox was exactly that – the cardboard box that the refrigerator had come in, one side cut down and the body filled with gravel. George had been promising to come by and build a real sandbox, with planks on the ground and real sand. There just hadn't been time. "Then we came in, and I made mac and cheese and we watched cartoons for a bit." At her look of disbelief, Derek frowned, exasperated. "Casey, I _can _boil a pot of water and read instructions."

"I know, I know," she said warily, "I'm sorry. It's just… I can't ever remember you making something more complicated than peanut butter on a sandwich or milk in a bowl of cereal."

"Sometimes people change," he replied, mimicking her words of earlier that day. Casey had no reply, and so they sat in a silence that was reminiscent of the first week when having an unfamiliar man in her house was incredibly uncomfortable. Finally, she looked at him until he looked up at her.

"I kept them," she whispered. "All of the magazines and the papers. I have them all."

For a long moment, she and Derek stared at each other, unable to break eye contact. All Casey wanted to do was reach out and brush the hair off his forehead, but right as she began to lean forward he stood, shaking his head at her as he left the room. A few seconds later she heard the muffled thumping of his feet on the stairs, and a door closing in the basement. She closed her own eyes and leaned back, massaging her temples with both hands. What the hell was she supposed to do now?


End file.
